From Sea to Shining Sea
| April 18, 2023I took another glance at the blue sea just out the window, and thought of the Jews crossing the Yam Suf
The good thing about vacations is that they start.
The bad thing is that they end.
Coming on the heels of weeks of emotional and physical overwhelm, I was desperate for a break. And when I finally assembled the logistical jigsaw puzzle of kids-work-appointments and found two days I could get away, I was thrilled.
As the bus pulled away, I felt myself slowly relaxing. I was going away. Away from the blessed chaos I live in, away from the children I love and don’t always like, away from the constant, constant demands for my time and space and energy. And I’d forgotten my phone at home (for real!), so I couldn’t even be reached for emergencies like a missing library book.
I got to the hotel and collapsed into bed. I’d caught yet another in a series of viruses, but this time, there was no one around to insist I function despite my incapacitated state.
I felt better the next morning, but that didn’t stop me from spending another few hours in bed. What are vacations meant for if not to catch up on much-needed sleep?
Later, feeling much better, I went to the beach. It was blissfully empty, and the crashing of the waves was soothing. I felt my head begin to clear, and by day two, as I got ready to leave, I felt pretty human again. I wasn’t sure how long that would last though, once I got back to the grind of daily life.
Sitting with a book on a plush teal couch in the hotel lobby, a view of palm trees and the sea outside the window, was calming. Thinking that soon I’d be leaving to make my bus home was less so.
How do I make this last? I wondered frantically.
When I’d arrived, I was physically and emotionally run-down. Now, I felt a lot better. The rest, the beauty around me, and the quiet — oh, the quiet! — had gone a long way to restoring my equilibrium. But what would happen now? How long can 48 hours of rest and sleep and reading and glorious silence and solitude last for? My metaphorical gas tank was a lot fuller, but my life guzzles gas very quickly.
I took another glance at the blue sea just out the window, and thought of the Jews crossing the Yam Suf. They’d just experienced a wondrous miracle, but when they got to the desert, they couldn’t sustain themselves on the miracle. They needed food, and Hashem sent them mahn.
One portion for every day.
One portion for every day, I told myself. This vacation doesn’t have to sustain you at all. Each day will bring its sustenance, its source of strength.
I came home to find things just as chaotic as I’d imagined they’d be, a crisis or two thrown in to keep things exciting. I found myself wilting pretty quickly; those relaxing days at the beach felt like ages ago.
Every day brings its portion, I reminded myself when my son told me his rebbi wouldn’t allow him to be late anymore, turning our mornings into a cauldron of tension.
Every day brings its portion, I told myself when the doctor said I’d need a procedure I’d hoped to avoid.
“Every day brings its portion,” I murmured as I stumbled through the maze of bureaucracy unique to Americans in Israel with no teudat zehut, panicking that I couldn’t get my baby registered in daycare.
Every day brings its blessings. In the Midbar, the mahn spoiled if it was left overnight. Every day brings its portion. All I need to do is cup my hands, look Upward, and wait for Him to pour His waiting blessing into my outstretched hands.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 839)
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